


The Motivation of Validation

by AU Mer-Maid (neonstardust)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Author, Characters Reading Fanfiction, Characters Writing Fanfiction, Don't Let The Tags Fool You This Is Safe For Work, Fanfiction Author, Kinktober 2019, Praise Kink, Wholesome Safe For Work Content In My Kinktober? Heck Yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-16 15:03:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21038162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonstardust/pseuds/AU%20Mer-Maid
Summary: Shirabu doesn't know how he got into writing fanfiction, and he doesn't particularlly care either. But when Yahaba unknowingly discoveres his writing, Shirabu discovers the true meaning of embarrassment.





	The Motivation of Validation

**Author's Note:**

> Kinktober Day 14 - Prompt: Praise Kink

Anxiety coils in the pit of Shirabu’s stomach like a viper. The constrictions hurt, filling him with worry and discomfort, but it’s the venomous thoughts filling his head that compel him to throw Yahaba’s phone into the garbage disposal.

Yahaba meanwhile kicks his legs back and forth, cheek nuzzled into his hand as he reads. His carefree nature both pisses Shirabu off and puts him more on edge. Feeling sick to his stomach, Shirabu looks away.

“Oh!” Yahaba points at the screen. “This is the best part.”

“Best part?” Shirabu forces out. His throat feels too tight, the muscles and nerves strained. “You’ve... already read it?”

“Yeah, last night.” He smiles brightly, and new dread floods Shirabu.

“This was posted at midnight.”

“Yeah, I get email notifications. Didn’t I tell you that?”

He did not tell him that. It doesn’t explain why he was awake and checking his email past midnight either, but Yahaba’s focus returns to his phone, stealing Shirabu’s chance to question him.

“His characterization is so on point,” Yahaba sighs. Fingers moving quick, he copies a sentence to his clipboard, and Shirabu already knows it will be used in the long comment he’s sure to type up once he finishes re-reading the chapter.

“They project too much,” Shirabu mumbles. One quick glance at Yahaba’s phone tells him exactly which scene he’s on. If he’d been any more obvious, he might as well have just replaced the main character’s name with his own, but Yahaba shakes his head.

“No, it ties in with that other chapter. You know? Where they first met. But look”—he turns the screen to Shirabu, pointing his own incriminating words at him—“the plot thickens.”

The plot most definitely has not thickened. It’s been congealing in Shirabu’s work in progress folder for the last two weeks with no plot in sight. He should have never chosen a murder mystery genre. He’s not a detective. Even with Yahaba always pushing him to his limits, he’s not a murderer either. Not yet at least. He doesn’t know how he’ll reveal who the killer is. As the story drags on, he feels less and less sure of who the killer even was to begin with.

“It’s not the maid,” Yahaba says, and Shirabu bites his tongue to keep from agreeing.

“Why’s that?” he asks.

“Too much suspense. The author wouldn’t make this whole thing about her if she was actually guilty. There’s a name for that, right?” Yahaba frowns. “A fake diversion thingy.”

“A red herring,” Shirabu says. “But she’s got the only key.”

“The author is smarter than that, Ken-chan,” Yahaba says, and Shirabu bites his tongue to keep from disagreeing.

“Give them more credit,” Yahaba continues. He rolls onto his back, bumping into Shirabu’s shoulder. “They wouldn’t ruin an elaborate crime investigation with a lame thing about who has keys.”

“Elaborate?” Shirabu repeats, and Yahaba lets out some kind of inhuman sound of agreement.

“Not even Sherlock Holmes could solve this,” Yahaba gushes.

Shifting on the bed, Shirabu pulls up the sheets so he can subtly bury his face in them to hide the warmth burning his cheeks. “That’s overdramatic,” he mumbles through the blankets.

Yahaba shrugs, a smile curving his lips. “I love their banter. Do you think they spend a lot of time doing the dialogue?”

Yes. Writing dialogue is harder than doing algebra. Even now, some of the things his main character has said make Shirabu cringe, but the embarrassment fades into a distant yet overwhelming feeling of failure. Not willing to admit any of this, he says, “Maybe.”

Nodding, Yahaba scrolls down. “I think it comes naturally to them.”

“What?”

“It’s too good. They’ve got to be a natural. Oh, listen to this: ‘Her gaze cuts like an obsidian dagger, but she shatters under the accusation.’ They always use edgy descriptions for her.”

“Oh.” Shirabu types a reminder on his phone to be less edgy regarding the maid.

“I like it,” Yahaba says.

“Oh.” Shirabu erases the reminder.

“It’s consistent,” Yahaba continues. “And misleading. It’s great.”

Shirabu doesn’t understand how it’s great, but it makes his chest feel warm all the same.

Yahaba rolls on his side. The phone blocks most of his face, but it grants Shirabu a good view of his eyes, sparkling with untold ideas. “I loved the butler.”

“Yeah,” Shirabu mumbles. “Real shame he died.”

“What?” Yahaba bolts upright.

Shirabu freezes. Panic floods his brain, and his chest pounds. “I mean, he’s going to die, right? Was, was that not a death flag? This chapter?”

Yahaba’s eyes narrow, cutting off the air from Shirabu’s lungs, but then he nods, lying down again. “Yeah, you’re right. That kitchen scene with the knife was a big red flag. Damn, I hope he lives. You got me worried now.”

Pulling the blanket closer, Shirabu breathes a sigh of relief. Writing in and of itself is hard, but keeping future events a secret from Yahaba is even harder.

Back on his stomach, Yahaba types out what will undoubtedly be an essay long comment. His tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth. Brows furrowing, he erases and re-types a sentence.

Shirabu loves comments. He especially loves crushing the hopes of his commenters who speculate about what the next chapter will bring by doing the exact opposite of what they expected.

But Yahaba’s comments are a different kind of special. Even after hearing all of his thoughts live in embarrassing detail, the comments he leaves fill Shirabu with warmth and fulfillment. They ease the anxiety of posting a new chapter and replace it with excitement, with determination to overcome his writer’s block so he can post another chapter for Yahaba to read. His interpretations give Shirabu ideas he wants to explore instead of crush, and the words stay with him, encouraging him when he feels like giving up.

“There.” Yahaba posts his comment. A moment later, Shirabu’s phone vibrates with a new email notification, and he seamlessly silences his phone.

Yahaba refreshes his inbox as if Shirabu will have magically written him a reply in the span of three seconds. “We should start our homework,” he says, but he scans over his comment for imperfections. “Do you think it would be weird to tell them they’re my favorite author?”

Shirabu’s heart clenches as if shot with an arrow. “Your favorite?” It comes out as a whisper. Clearing his throat, he says, “That’s normal, I guess.”

“Good.” Yahaba nods, satisfied. “Because I said they’re the best author ever. Even better than those classic authors we read about in class.”

The arrow must have been on fire, because his chest burns. The warmth travels up his neck, setting his face ablaze, searing all the way up to his ears. Shirabu buries his head in the blanket.

“Tired?” Yahaba asks.

“Mhm.”

Yahaba turns, cushioning his head on Shirabu’s back, and he worries Yahaba will hear his heart pounding.

“What do you think of their stories?”

“I think,” Shirabu says, “that I’m glad they make you happy.”

Yahaba makes a pleased sound. “You don’t think my comments annoy them, do you?”

“I think...” Shirabu smiles into the blanket. “They’re the highlight of their day.”


End file.
